


One Last Miracle: JohnLock One-Shot

by odz1994



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, Literature, M/M, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9661145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odz1994/pseuds/odz1994
Summary: Spoiler alert in case some people haven't finished Season 2. If you haven't finished, do not read this fanfiction.I am obsessed with this pairing after finishing up the series so far. This is based after the Season 2 finale.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler alert in case some people haven't finished Season 2. If you haven't finished, do not read this fanfiction.
> 
>  
> 
>  I am obsessed with this pairing after finishing up the series so far. This is based after the Season 2 finale.

“Sherlock!” John awoke in a cold sweat, sitting up in his bed, from the nightmare he had been having. Actually it was the same series of nightmares that he had been having for the past week. It always begins with the visions of war; a nightmare he hadn’t had since he had met Sherlock. Perhaps Sherlock was the reason his nightmares ceased. The second half of his nightmare is the jump; the jump that Sherlock had made while on the phone with John. His suicide. 

John sat there for several minutes, although they felt like hours, trying to calm himself. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. He roughly ran his fingers through his hair and got out of his bed. His digital clock read 3:41 A.M. He figured it would be pointless to fall asleep. Every time John would close his eyes, the same images would come back. 

He had found a cheap accommodation on the other side of town, making sure to keep himself as far away from Baker Street as possible. The kettle in the kitchen whistled to signal that the water for his tea was ready. He made himself a cup and sat down at the table. He had been seeing a therapist, but she wasn’t really helping. She would just tell him that the nightmares were his way of coping, or that he would just need more time. He didn’t want to get over it. He didn’t need more time. He wanted Sherlock back. He needed Sherlock back. He needed his best friend. He needed…

He shook the thought from his head and stood from his chair, hardly touching the tea that he had made. It was still early in the morning, now 3:48 A.M., so he wouldn’t be able to go to work. John made his way back into his bedroom and changed out of his nightclothes and into his everyday clothes. He slipped on his jacket and shoes, and walked out the door. 

The streets were wet from the rain that had just ceased. It had been raining for almost four days straight. To John, it felt like it had been raining for far longer than that. His days dragged on and so did his nights. The only sound that could be heard was John’s feet smacking the wet pavement every time he took a step. 

_“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.”_

He stopped walking and looked up to see that he had found his way to the door he had been avoiding the past week. He reached for the knocker and then pulled back. This process repeated itself several times before he got up the nerve to finally knock. He turned heel and walked away as soon as he let go. He couldn’t figure out why he had knocked on the door. He shouldn’t have done that, not even at this hour. He hoped Mrs. Hudson didn’t hear and was still sound asleep in her bed. Mrs. Hudson. He really should call her and ask her out for tea someday. He wouldn’t be able to go to her place for it. He can’t go near the flat, too many memories. It just wasn’t the same without Sherlock. 

Rain had begun to fall from the sky once more. John pulled his jacket up to cover his head and he continued his solitary walk through London’s streets. The rain had picked up and was falling, soaking John and the ground instantly. He looked up and saw an awning with dry concrete underneath. He pulled his jacket down and stood beneath the awning. John leaned against the building behind him and sighed. 

_“This phone call…it’s uhm…it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”_

_“Leave a note when?”_

_“Goodbye John.”_

_“No. Don’t. Sherlock!”_

“Why are you bringing me here?” John mumbled to himself. He looked up and saw St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. He was standing in the exact spot he had been only a week ago. He didn’t want to be here, but yet his body was taking him to the places where he longed to be. Maybe he should just start moving on. He couldn’t just seclude himself from the world forever. He couldn’t keep blaming himself for not stopping Sherlock from jumping. There really wasn’t much he could have done anyways. Sherlock still probably would’ve jumped even if he had run into the building as fast as he could. He looked up at the sky as tears and rain flowed down his face. He made his way across the street and stood at the spot where Sherlock once lay. 

“God, why? Why Sherlock?” He fell back against the wall and slid down until he was on the ground. He no longer cared if they sidewalk soaked his clothing. Although the rain, as well as the team who cleaned the sidewalk, had washed away the blood, he felt like he could still see it running down and into the sewage drain. He sat there on the cold, wet ground for several minutes, crying. He hadn’t cried since the day of his funeral. He hoped that crying would help him get over it. He knew that he had to move on. He just didn’t know how. Not yet. 

Dawn approached by the time John had gotten back up to his feet. He would have to go back home and change before he went into work. He was told he could have off two weeks to put himself back together after witnessing such a thing. He told them he was fine. He wanted to be at work the day after the funeral. He just wanted to take his mind off of everything that had happened. However, before he made his way back home, he made a detour. He decided to talk to him once more. He was sure only Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade had gone to see him over the past week. Well, maybe only Mrs. Hudson. The rain still pelted the ground as he approached Sherlock’s grave. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets, looking at the name engraved on the headstone. Something about this whole thing just didn’t seem real. It still didn’t seem real that his best friend had jumped off the building across the street from him. It didn’t seem real that the dead body he saw on the sidewalk was Sherlock Holmes. He inhaled sharply and reached one hand forward, placing it at the top of the headstone. There wasn’t much more he could say to him. He said most of what he wanted the last time he came there. And yet here he was, standing by his grave. John removed his hand and turned away from the grave. He only said one final thing before walking away.

“I’m still waiting on that miracle.”  



End file.
